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Kronemeyer’s wife is a gracious and sharing woman of
sixty-four years, slight of frame and easily overlooked in
even the smallest of social encounters in Antigo, Wisconsin.
She wears modest clothing befitting her age and carries
herself with an air of innocuousness bordering on
invisibility. If she were pressed to provide some details
about herself she would describe her hair as dishwater
blonde, her figure as post-childbearing but not as
pear-shaped as some, her smile as garden-variety, her eyes
as hazel mint. If she had a driver’s license, which she does
not, she would have underreported her weight, but only a
little. She would have listed her height accurately though
the last time she checked in a rare moment of
self-indulgence she had actually shrunk by half-an-inch.